


Drawing the line

by Avice



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Apologies, Arguing, Fights, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-09
Updated: 2012-08-09
Packaged: 2017-11-11 19:07:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/481865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avice/pseuds/Avice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock have a fight. They are mean to each other. John wants Sherlock to apologise. This time it's Sherlock, who has trouble keeping up.</p><p>These two were getting along too nicely in my works, it's payback time.</p><p>"When you generally expect others to tell you to piss off, it is difficult for them to actually make you angry. Yes, there is the mild annoyance at most times, the serious frustration frequently, but getting properly upset, or worse, having your carefully controlled feelings hurt, is a rare occurrence. "</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drawing the line

When you generally expect others to tell you to piss off, it is difficult for them to actually make you angry. Yes, there is the mild annoyance at most times, the serious frustration frequently, but getting properly upset, or worse, having your carefully controlled feelings hurt, is a rare occurrence. Although furious, Sherlock was able to appreciate the exceptionality, trying to get used to the feeling as a matter of fact, when he waited for John to return. He'd chop him to pieces for what he'd done. Figuratively, of course, even if he might be fantasising about more material measures to calm himself.

This time Sherlock had crossed the line. John could take the complete intrusion on his privacy. He'd spent years in Afghanistan, and you can bet the MI6, the CIA and god knows who else was there keeping an eye on every blasted grain of sand. He had all the privacy he needed in his head (and whatever Sherlock might think, some of it truly remained so). He was also able to take the rudeness, the tantrums, the constant undermining of his intellect, the frequent embarrassments in public. No problem. He had seen worse. But there were things even Sherlock had best leave be, regardless of how bored he was. 

John had gone out and coming back had met Harry rushing off crying. She hadn't stopped to explain, only called Sherlock an evil prick saying she hated him. Calling her later she was already too drunk to make any sense. Sherlock, on the other hand, was only happy to share the details. He had basically dissected her. The drinking, its reasons, why all her relationships failed (not only the romantic ones, but also for example with her brother) – even stooping low enough to delve into her career and financial success. The one thing she was proud of. Sherlock had delivered the full works with a cherry on top, just for lack of better things to do, to pass the time of day. In fact she had been on the wagon for a change, despite having just broken up with her girlfriend, which Sherlock knew, like he knew everything. 

John agreed with Harry. The evil prick. He had said as much to Sherlock. Sherlock, always infuriatingly detached, had just shrugged and continued to play his violin, not giving a damn. Not getting there was a damn to give. That's when John had done it. Snatched the instrument from him and smashed it against the wall.  
"Fuck you, Sherlock," he'd said calmly before leaving, banging the door shut behind him. He had had enough. Fuck Sherlock, fuck his childish little mind games, fuck his dazzling observations. He could take it, but he sure as hell didn’t need it.

\---

John stood outside. He had been looking at their windows for a while now, waiting for the lights to go out, or at least for the manically pacing figure to sit down. It didn't seem to be happening anytime soon. He was tired, it was raining. He had left his phone and purse upstairs as he’d dashed out. He had to spend the night somewhere. 

Sherlock heard the front door and the cautious steps on the stairs. Time for revenge. He had gotten the violin when he was three. If he were to get attached to inanimate objects, that would've been a possession he cared for. John, regardless of being the half-wit he was, surely knew that. He had broken it on purpose to hurt Sherlock. Intent on causing him pain. It was somewhat unexpected, surprising even. He had counted on John's exceptional self-control and calm nerves from the start. He knew that some boundary had been broken, but had trouble understanding what and how. It couldn’t be about Harry. Sherlock had insulted many people in ways much worse. But he didn’t bother thinking about that now. 

Now was the time to hurt John back. He had just the right words for that. It would be easy, of course, John being the simpleton he was. He wanted to harm John, see pain on his face. In fact, he had never cared so much about hurting someone. A witty rebuke usually sufficed, if he was crossed. This time, this time there was something special about it. It was his violin. Or… was it John? 

He didn’t get to finish the thought when John stepped in, tired, angry, soaked, and, oh no, already hurt. Sherlock’s ill temper suddenly evaporated, his carefully planned insults diffusing. Instead he only said:  
"That was a 19th century instrument."  
John looked at him defiantly. He'd known that. He knew some things at least.  
"Boohoo. Bill me." His eyes were hard, cold. "That was a recovering alcoholic."  
Sherlock was taken aback by John's attitude. He was the injured party here, not John. It was his violin. Besides he knew he didn't have anything to say about Harry that wouldn't make things worse. Pointing out the fact that she obviously wasn't that committed to her recovery, if a few truths got her drinking again, probably wouldn't be a good idea. He had worked that much out. Huh - and they said he was insensitive.

"That's my sister, you heartless bastard."  
Sherlock was confused. Except he never was. He didn’t do confused. He was sure he had said worse things to John, others too, so why was this different, why was this suddenly so much worse.  
"Then surely you should know her best. I just pointed out the obvious.”  
"Yeah, big fucking thanks for that."  
Another fuck - John usually went for bloody, if he cursed at all. 

It was his sister, for fuck’s sake. Yes, they weren't that close anymore. Somehow that only made it worse. For surely if someone got to snub her, it was him, not Sherlock. There was also something more… that’s right, Sherlock and Harry weren’t allowed to fight, they had to get along, John realised. They owed _him_ that. If they cared for him, they were to be civil with each other. Because she was his sister and he was his friend. Sherlock had broken the rule.

John’s blood boiled again: "Here's something obvious for you, arsehole. I know why you play these ridiculous mind games. In fact, we all do. Why do you think we put up with it? Why do I take it or Greg or Mrs. Hudson or poor Molly?"  
Sherlock felt better, more confident. As if John could tell him something he didn't know.  
"Well, it's not so that we could bask in your highness' intellect,” John sneered. “We feel sorry for you. Sorry, alright. We pity you. Because you will never get it. Despite your brilliant mind, you will never understand how the rest of us function. And the only time you come close, the only thing you're good at, in being human, is taking the piss. Okay. That’s why you do it. And that is your endearing, even a tad average characteristic. Taking the piss like a normal person. You really marvel at it. And that's why we take it, Sherlock. Out of pity. We let you play human with us," John snarled.

Sherlock stepped back. He stumbled to sit down. It wasn't true. It couldn't be. Pity. It was the last thing he wanted from these average, normal, mindless automatons. As if he would care enough to take the piss, to purposely make the attempt of winding someone up. That would be a complete waste of his resources. Of course he made observations, since his mind needed something to do. That was all. He didn’t need to partake in normal. He had no interest in fitting in. Right? 

John regretted his words as soon as they were out. There was no taking them back now. Poor sod, he was too hard on him. But he didn't apologise. Let Sherlock taste his own medicine for a change, see what uncomfortable truths felt like. Facts only.  
"You're lying," Sherlock almost whispered. "You're lying!" he shouted, stood up.  
"Wouldn't that be nice," John remarked coolly.  
"You're... You're mean and you're a liar! And... you'll never find a woman to make you happy because…"  
No, he was better at quarrelling than this. That's why he didn't need to do it anymore. Sherlock regained his composure, sat down. 

He had left out the end, just in time. He didn't want to tell John now. Not anymore. He didn't care now. It would make no difference to him that John was gay and in love with him. And maybe he wasn't anymore - in love that is, no doubt about the gay. It didn't matter, a silly dream. John hated him. Like the rest of them. And he hated him back. Like the rest.  
"You will pay for that violin," Sherlock said placing his palms together. John would be lucky to get away with a few insults. Or with financial recompense. A plan was already coming together. The one he had had earlier didn’t cut it anymore. John would be sorry.

"Look, Sherlock, I..." but he'd be damned if he were the first to apologise. What were those childish insults anyway? You're mean? You won’t find a girlfriend? Absurd. John went to his room. He wanted to be alone, get some sleep. He wanted this horrible day to be over.

\---

The next morning Sherlock sat in the kitchen, a mean smile quivering on his lips, plotting. He would make John sorry for everything. For being mean and stupid. And so alike everyone else.

But John looked straight through him, pretending not to notice. He hadn't slept. Shadows on his face, eyes hazy from weariness. He hadn’t even shaved. He _was_ in pain. Again Sherlock's ill mood disappeared. No, he didn't want this. He didn't want John angry at him. 

No, he decided, he didn't want John hurt after all. He wanted his dream back. It was the only one he had ever had. 

"I... would you like to… I could get tickets for the Spurs game. They are playing today, aren't they?"  
John jolted at the unexpected suggestion and stopped mid-movement. Sherlock was nearly as shocked. Where had that come from? Football? Really. He needed to get a new violin to think. 

John didn’t respond. Sherlock just didn’t get it. Frankly, he wasn’t sure he got it either. He only knew Sherlock bloody well _had to_ apologise for hurting his sister. For hurting someone important to him. And he had to do it of his own accord, because he understood, not because he was told to. John needed that from him. Not sure why, though.

\---

John was persistent in his silent treatment. Three days already. He hadn't even looked up when Sherlock came in with his new (old) instrument. He had however gone through the papers for it to find out the value. Hadn't cared that Sherlock was in the room and didn't ask for permission. 

These things didn't come cheap, John gulped. He would need a job. Preferably at a private surgery. Maybe he should just move out. It was too late to make amends now, Sherlock would think he did it only to get out of reimbursing the broken instrument. Anyway he did want to pay for it. It had been Sherlock's prized possession. 

Still, perhaps it had been worth it. He had been able to shake Sherlock a bit. At least he himself hadn’t been insulted since their fight. Come to think of it, it was peculiar. Maybe Sherlock was plotting something worse. He wouldn’t put it past him. Not now.

Sherlock wasn’t plotting. He was puzzled. He was working, trying to understand what John wanted him to do. It was difficult. It was the kind of problem, where John usually helped him, told him what to do. Yet he refused to do so now. He wanted Sherlock to figure it out on his own. Why? That was significant. What did John want from him? John wanted him to understand something. But what? It couldn’t be about the facts – if something he’d said about Harry was inaccurate, John would’ve simply provided him with the correct information. Yet it had something to do with Harry. With the fact that she was his sister. 

He was not good at putting himself in someone else’s place, but he tried. How would he react if someone hurt Mycroft’s feelings? He almost laughed. The idea of anything hurting Mycroft’s feelings was preposterous, as was the idea that he, Sherlock, would be upset about it. No, that didn’t work. 

Wait a minute. There was a flaw in his deductions. Not _someone_ hurting Mycroft’s feelings… _John_ hurting Mycroft’s feelings. On purpose or appearing that way to him. Again he smirked at the thought of Mycroft’s feelings. And at _John_ attempting to hurt them. Still, he was sure he was on to something. It wasn’t about Harry, not all of it. It was about him and John. He jumped up from the sofa enthusiastically. John glared at him crossly. He picked up his violin, chose a jaunty tune. He knew he was on the verge of a breakthrough.

John was miserable. If he wasn’t talking to Sherlock, neither was Sherlock to him. Well, yesterday when he’d been in his makeshift laboratory in the kitchen, he had gone on a detailed explanation about the experiment he was doing, but during the past few days he had obviously been engrossed in a case of which he had told nothing about. John had been excluded, dropped out. And now Sherlock had apparently forgotten about him completely, laughing and smiling to himself, not in the least bothered by their tiff any longer. 

John browsed the ‘For rent’ –pages. No one was looking to share with an unemployed doctor, who wouldn’t be able to pay his way for at least a year, because he was funding the purchase of a 19th century violin. What a mess. Could he go to Harry’s? She was insufferable drunk. He didn’t want to go. He only wanted Sherlock to apologise. Why couldn’t he just do that? Did he even remember they had fought?

“Sherlock?” he mumbled.  
“Hmm?” Sherlock stopped his playing. John was speaking to him. Good.  
“About the other day…”  
“Yes, yes. I’ve almost got it,” he said excitedly. “Give me another hour or two.”  
“Er, got what?”  
“What you want me to do, of course. Now, quiet, please. I’m almost there.”  
Almost where? But John knew better than to ask. Hang on. Sherlock was thinking about what he wanted him to do? Had he been thinking about their argument all along? John cheered up, hardly daring to believe it. That would be splendid, too good to be true, surely?

John found it hard to sit still. He felt giddy. Sherlock was thinking about what he wanted from him. He went to put the kettle on. Sherlock was _absorbed_ in thinking about him. It made him nervous. But in a good way. Or just a nervous way. What if Sherlock really was just putting together the perfect rebuke? A cold sweat crept up his back. What if Sherlock had been planning for three days for the best way to humiliate him? He couldn’t even imagine what horrid, painfully accurate, abuse was on the way.  
“Stop the wobbling, John, it’s distracting.”

\---

Sherlock put down the phone. He had handled the call well.  
“John, downstairs! I got it!” Sherlock was very pleased with himself. He was out of his territory, but he knew he had it now.  
John sat hesitantly on the sofa. He had spent the past hour imagining the horrors he was about to face, but at the back of his mind he desperately held on to the glimmer of hope that maybe, maybe, Sherlock was going to apologise.  
“John,” Sherlock stood in the middle of the floor.  
“Sherlock,” he met the detective’s eyes.  
“I apologise.”  
John sagged relieved. Bloody. Hell. But still he was reluctant to make it too easy for Sherlock.  
“Okay. What for?”  
“Please, John, do forgive me for being rude to your sister and making things difficult for you. I understand now that I must try my best with her, because she is your sister. You care about her and I care about you.”  
John was speechless. He was happy, no, he was ecstatic.  
“I already called Harry and apologised to her. I was also able to recommend a good rehab counsellor. I believe she will contact her.”  
“I… thanks, Sherlock… I mean… apology accepted… I…”  
He dimly recalled there was something he was supposed to say as well.

“I’m sorry, too, Sherlock, for breaking your violin and for saying those mean things to you. They… it wasn’t true.”  
Sherlock smiled, almost tenderly. John was a lousy liar.  
“Don’t worry about the violin, I called in a favour, got it as a gift.” He delivered fiction much better.  
“Really? Huh, that’s a relief, I must admit. I was ready to pay for it.”  
Sherlock sat next to him.  
“I know.”  
What was that softness in Sherlock’s gaze? They were sitting rather close to each other. John’s pulse strangely loud, thumping in his ears. The time seemed to stop as Sherlock started to raise his hand, to move it over, and finally, after what felt like minutes, placed it on John’s for the briefest moment and squeezed gently. John gasped, trembled. But Sherlock was already gone, hunched over the microscope. 

Yes, his dream was alive and well.


End file.
